


Green

by pennypaperbrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, BDSM, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Breathplay, Edgeplay, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Interrogation, Mindfuck, Safewords, Sherlock and Mary are BFFs, Trauma Recovery, Verbal Humiliation, dom mary morstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain/pseuds/pennypaperbrain
Summary: Masochist Sherlock has a BDSM dungeon in his crypt hidey-hole. Dom Mary likes this, a lot.They've played a few times, but generally kept it physical. Now Sherlock wants to do a psychological interrogation scene.This may or may not be a good idea; the two of them are about to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> This fic was commissioned by Anarfea for Fandom Trumps Hate 2017: 'Marylock interrogation scene. I want to see people who have been tortured going down into the darkness again for Reasons.'
> 
> *WARNING WARNING WARNING* This fic is about intense psychological edgeplay, albeit between two people who love each other. (Allosexual Mary and asexual Sherlock kinky BFFs - like life, it's complicated.) There's a happy ending of course, because I like hardcore BDSM and warm snuggles, but they're damaged people.

Trust Sherlock to have a hideout like this. It’s got crumbling pillars, a mouldy sofa, laptops, bottles and racks and jars of experiments, a toaster (obviously)… and a little side room.

The first time he showed her around the place, he didn’t point out the entrance, or stop her going through it, but the key was in the door, and when Mary pushed her way in on her own – as if she were ever not going to – he followed her complacently.

Mary stood in the middle of the dim space, taking in the rough walls, tiny, high window, mattress, two battered chairs, one of them with considerably more straps than normal, chains bolted to the walls and racks of… kit.

‘Sherlock,’ Mary turned around to meet his eye. ‘This is a BDSM dungeon.’

‘Excellent deduction,’ he said drily. He didn’t look worried, not Sherlock, but maybe just a little guarded.

Mary broke into a wide grin, and a moment later he matched it. ‘Oh, I like you _so much_ ,’ she said.

***

They’ve played a fair few times now, and it turns out they are a match made in one particular kind of heaven. Sherlock the sensation junkie is deliciously masochistic, and while not precisely submissive, delights in being ‘forced’. Mary the former assassin is rather good at targeted personal violence, as well as having an itch to put the world in order that seldom gets scratched by reality, meaning that the opportunity to take it out on an eager backside is very welcome.

He’s not into her body, Mary can tell, while she’s definitely into his. That makes the dynamic a little strange sometimes, but they are deeply, pervertedly into each other’s minds. Sherlock is a menace, coming up behind her and purring ‘Hurt me’ into her ear when she’s trying to change a nappy, but it didn’t take long for Mary to retaliate by creeping up behind him when he was trying to be relatively polite to a client, grabbing his arse and murmuring, ‘I’m going to chain you up and torture you,’ then sticking her hand into his groin when the client’s attention was briefly on John, to confirm her hypothesis that sometimes the way to a man’s dick is through threats. John just tends to hold his hands up and say, ‘Whatever. Just don’t kill each other. And look after Rosie if I go down the pub with Lestrade on Thursday.’ 

So on the whole, it’s rather sweet. And painful and twisted and intense, and there’s been a few tears, bursting out suddenly and wiped quickly away, because it’s not good to go _there_ , or open _that_ up... You don’t reach forty without getting a few scars, and in their particular case there are some very physical scars on Sherlock’s back, and sometimes her own darkness squats so heavily on Mary’s thoughts that she simply goes quiet, sits down, and after a moment undoes whatever bondage they’re using. Then they hold each other and make crap jokes.

But they’ve never done anything quite like this.

***

An interrogation scene was sort of her idea, sort of his. Sherlock had been more cooperative than she’d expected when it came to initial negotiations for play, commenting that ‘Accidentally traumatizing each other would be unhelpful’, before happily talking her through the dungeon kit and listening to her own list of limits. When it came to verbal abuse, though… she hadn’t even started the discussion because it was such a potential disaster area; and just (ha: just…) being Mary and Sherlock was fun enough.

Then one night she had him against a wall, and on impulse, flying on power, she stretched up close to his face and whispered, ‘Fuck you, piece of shit.’

There was a strange suspended moment. _God_ , Mary thought, _What an idiot. Now we’re both going to end up giggling._ Which was good sometimes, but ideally not when she was trying to drop Sherlock into subspace.

But instead, Sherlock had let out a desperate little moan and arched his neck as if offering his throat. Such a bolt of longing shot through Mary that for a moment she was practically dizzy, and she opened her mouth to follow up… and couldn’t, quite. She settled for grabbing his hair and biting his ear, which occupied his attention perfectly.

Afterwards, though, they’d had one of those spontaneous renegotiation conversations. She’d mentioned ‘interrogation’ casually, as something they would obviously never do, with their personal histories… and he’d looked at her intently and said, ‘Why not?’

That was the hottest, and most disturbing, idea ever. Deep mindfuck. Humiliation, they agreed. Verbal. Total.

Sometimes, the disaster area is the place you’re drawn to. And now here they are. 

***

Here Mary is, to be precise, settling down to sleep between some non-mouldy duvets laid across the dubious sofa.

Sherlock is locked in the dungeon, chained to the wall by his ankle, sleeping on the thin mattress in a pair of ragged old jeans. He has a cup of water, a bowl with a few slices of bread in it, a bucket and a little beeper so he can summon her if he needs to safeword out overnight.

Mary is having some trouble getting to sleep. She was never a gleeful torturer like Alex, but she knows the fierce relish of putting a gun to a head and smashing one more Magnusson – no, if she’s honest with herself (which she always is it was just as likely to be one more naive boy or simple unknown threat – out of the picture. What to do with the itch for savagery now that A.G.R.A. is put aside? 

John has come to terms with it, and knows he has no business criticising. Sherlock, though… looked her over and grinned. Even though she’d shot him.

Mary drifts into a half-dream of the burnt-out restaurant where she shot a man in the back rather than let him get away and reveal A.G.R.A. to his bosses, but soon drifts out again. When the beeper goes off around one-thirty, she is a little relieved. This was too much, too deep. It’s the kind of scene that maybe they could eventually play, as the weird cord of understanding that linked them from the start loops ever thicker and more intricate around them; but not yet.

Mary scrambles up, fumbles the torch app on her phone, turns the key and stumbles in to find Sherlock blinking owlishly in the sudden light. ‘Sherlock? You’re safewording? All right, I’m not surprised. Come here.’ She sits down beside him, ready for a hug… but he keeps his distance, just putting a hand on her shoulder and studying her in the odd play of shadow and harsh light between them. ‘No,’ he says after a while. ‘I just… want to know you’re there.’ He’s wearing the _ugh I’m having an illogical thought, how distasteful_ expression. Mary manages to avoid showing her amusement – it’s not the time.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she says. ‘I’m taking us dark, and deep—’ Or trying to; a lot of responsibility, this domming business. ‘—but use traffic lights.’

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock, then murmurs, ‘Mary, Mary, wonderfully contrary,’ and kisses her cheek before turning his head away. ‘I am afraid of what you’ll do to me. You have form, after all. But I assure you, it’s all extremely arousing.’ 

Sherlock gestures around the cell, at her, at his chained ankle. Around the curve of his shoulder, she glimpses a quick ripple of scars. He never talks about Serbia, but here he is, seeking torture from his friend in their private place. Such odd twists of thought and desire bring people happiness.

 _Beats the hell out of crap telly, that’s for sure,_ thinks Mary. He’s a masochist, says he has been since he figured himself out in his teens, and she’s (now) a responsible sadist. Win.

He’s staring at her. Waiting for a response. From friend-Mary or persona-Mary? _The interrogator,_ she thinks to herself. _That’s me._

 _Unf._ Hot shivers and chills run through her simultaneously. She stands up and sweeps Sherlock with torchlight so that he winces and holds his hands in front of his eyes. Ragged, cold, chained-up, vulnerable, waiting for her to hurt him. 

‘Yes, be afraid,’ she says quietly, then locks him in again. 

She gets seven hours of peaceful sleep.

***

In the morning, Mary opens the door to find Sherlock sitting with his arms around his knees as he stares up at the light filtering through the high window.

‘Oh, have you come for a chat?’ he asks. Biting, brittle. Forty years old, and at the same time a skinny, scared boy pretending invulnerability so hard. Like many she’s seen…

‘No, you stupid bastard, I’ve come to torture you until you tell me what I need to know.’ She scoops up the beeper from beside the mattress and pockets it. ‘Where are the plans?’

It’s a plain question with an answer simple enough for Sherlock to dredge out of subspace if and when he decides to: _behind the bookcase_. That’ll be Mary’s cue to wind down. Oh, she hopes it takes him a good long time to come out with it.

She strides over and grabs Sherlock from behind by the hair. Dragging him to his feet, feeling him stumble and lose balance as his shackled leg hinders him, she twists his arms behind him, pressed to the mess of scars she never quite touches, and holds her knife to his throat. For a few long seconds she just breathes on him, digging nails into his wrists, feeling the slight twitch of his arse against her hip.

‘Understand?’ she demands, and forces him to drop clumsily to his knees, then onto his face. Straddling his arse, she pulls the packet of heavy-duty zip-ties out of her pocket, yanks his arms down straight behind him, winds a plastic strip around his wrists and ratchets it tight enough to hold but not – quite – damage. ‘Stop struggling and your hands won’t drop off. Piss me about and I _cut_ bits off.’

Mary gets up and kicks Sherlock’s hip in a demand for acknowledgement. He cranes around just a little towards her, and gives the slightest of nods, rustling against the mattress. Mary aims a kick at his face, then as he cringes instinctively in on himself she moves away, smiling. ‘Come on, kneel.’

A tug to his hair and Sherlock squirms himself up. Already his gaze is slightly unfocused, shocked by the first onslaught but as he stabilises himself, his expression hardens again. ‘I suppose there is some point to this? If you wanted to soften me up, you could merely leave me here for a couple of days without water. Much more efficient.’

‘Thank you for your suggestion,’ says interrogator-Mary, though friend-Mary is trying not to smile at the utter Sherlockery of that response. ‘But this is much more enjoyable. Let’s see what we can do.’

She walks from side to side as she says this. Head held high, his eyes follow her, and yes; there’s the fear; a rich, dark thread in the complex weave between them.

Mary knocks Sherlock onto his side again. His free right leg kicks out, but she captures it easily, ‘You are a piece of shit,’ she hisses into his ear. ‘What are you?’

Sherlock is silent and still. Mary drags his right leg up towards one of the waist-height chains on the wall and uses a zip-tie to attach his ankle to a link, presenting him with the choice of holding his leg up at a 45-degree angle or letting it dangle from the harsh, toothed loop of the tie. Soon Sherlock’s muscles are trembling, and he’s squirming around, from his side onto his back, trying to find a position where he can keep the suspended leg from sagging down, trying to brace it against the wall, attempting to get his relatively mobile chained leg under him to stand, and falling back. He tries to twist his other knee up to use it as a support for the hanging one, but it slips away. 

‘Tell me where the plans are,’ Mary says. Sherlock ignores her. Utterly intent on his movements, he’s been quiet for the first few minutes, but now he’s letting out little grunts of effort and distress… and from the look in his eyes, Mary can tell that he’s sinking. Deep into himself, into the one-way struggle with pain, into subspace. Beautiful. Part of herself is rising out, driving into him. _Feel me._

Eventually Sherlock sags and seems to give in – leg clearly gone numb – and Mary goes to cut his ankle free. ‘That was nice while it lasted. I could do the other one, but it’s less fun when your muscles are already weak. Sssh.’ She pats Sherlock’s trembling leg. ‘Oh come on, did you think I’d strap you into a chair and shout at you or something? What kind of humiliation is that?’ Pause. ‘I’ve got just one question. Ready to answer?’

‘No,’ Sherlock mutters, face half-mashed into the mattress. Mary puts a boot on his neck, presses hard enough that he lets out a choked sound, and sighs.

‘I’ll take that as meaning _Yes, please torture me,_ ’ she says. ‘I’ll let you lie for a bit, though.’

She crouches down and speaks clearly into Sherlock’s face: ‘You are a piece of shit.’

No visible response. Mary takes out her iPhone, presses _record_ and says it again. She sets her words to play on a loop, puts the beeper in Sherlock’s hand, shuts the door and goes to make herself some breakfast.

This worked well in the field: it breaks the subject down with minimum external mess.

Still, a couple of times, standing alone in the – by their standards – normality of the main room with its experiments and toast, she almost runs back in to check the dangerous game isn’t going too far, into a place with no full return. But Sherlock has the beeper, and Mary, staring unseeing at a table leg, has a growing sense of dark solidity; a path they’re on together. 

When she returns twenty minutes later, Sherlock is lying roughly where she left him, but facing the wall, as if trying to get as far away as possible from the phone, which is still repeating her words. Mary switches it off, then approaches her victim to sit on the mattress. To her surprise, he wriggles round to meet her eyes. Or perhaps to hide his back. Dishevelled, delicious. She pinches his bare arm because she can. Red crescents spring up beside old track marks.

‘Repeating a fallacious statement does not increase its versatili—’ Sherlock starts coldly, then falters. ‘Versat – no. Vera- _veracity_.’

It’s working. His frustrated frown is adorable. ‘Oh dear, is its little brain starting to misfire?’ She pushes some curls behind Sherlock’s ear, then traces a line down to his lips. They’re a bit puffy. He’s been biting them. Now he’s pouting. 

‘Bugger,’ he says, as distinctly and dispassionately as if he were mildly annoyed at himself for cracking a test tube.

‘Piece of shit,’ says Mary affectionately, leaning in over him, straddling him so that his bony hip fits into her hollow; snug, exquisite, an edge of the uncomfortable. The knife in its sheath bangs against her thigh, but she remembers not to push too hard yet, to pace this. Sherlock struggles, but less vigorously now. ‘You’ll tell me what I want to know so I don’t have to slice open your face, won’t you?’

Sherlock sucks in breath, so that Mary can feel the air rush past her fingers.

He bites her, hard.

Reflexes bring Mary’s other fist around to whack Sherlock in the forehead so he jerks away, and before she’s finished her first agonised gasp she yanks her hand back to suck the hurt finger. Luckily he didn’t get enough grip to do much damage… fucking hell, he’s made her look silly and _no no no_ to that… Rage spikes through her and then surges out towards him, the dazed, smug little fucker, and she’s going to make him scream. 

Mary jumps off Sherlock, twists and drags his armpit, and he’s stumbling up again, chained leg dragging, before she bangs him against the wall, his head bumping off the stone. ‘Do you know exactly how many holes I can cut in you while you stay alive and conscious?’ She raises her knife, pokes it into his chin just hard enough that a bead of blood wells up.

‘Inform me of the depth… and location of the intended inci- incisions… then I could do a calculation,’ he announces. Brave words, but he’s shaking all over. ‘I… unh.’

‘Repeat after me: _I am a piece of shit,_ ’ says Mary.

Sherlock swallows, then says in a cracked voice, ‘You are a piece of shit.’

‘Hilarious.’ Mary presses Sherlock against the wall by his neck until he chokes; she lets go; he wobbles forwards; she slams him back; she kicks Sherlock’s unchained leg from under him and he collapses half-sideways, half into her. She catches him, shoves him to his knees again, holds him there by the shoulder while his head trembles and he lets out little whimpers. ‘Not a game.’ And she scores a line into the back of his neck, deep enough for blood to well; leans around him, does the same on his chest. _Hurt him. Mark him. Mine._ ‘Tell me.’

‘Amber,’ says Sherlock.

Amber. _Slow down._ She’s not entirely sorry to hear that.

Mary sheaths her knife, crouches down in front of Sherlock and tips up his chin – he’s still fighting his desperate battle to look impassive, but there are tears in his eyes. Mary licks at them, smiles, waiting a few moments for him to settle, then kisses him, carefully at first, testing the tension between his lack of reaction to her physical body and his passionate response to what she does to him, then stronger as she feels the urgency taking over. It’s OK, it’s good, they’re together, they’d never harm each other. Mary’s hand roams possessively around Sherlock’s body, scratching, tweaking, gripping because they need need need the darkness in each other. When she finds a hardness at Sherlock’s groin, she murmurs into his ear, ‘You actually get off on this, you sick, sick fucker.’

Sherlock moans, low and deep.

Mary shoves him onto his side on the mattress. He settles, tries to spit fluff out of his mouth, but Mary is climbing over him, pinning him with herself, relentless. ‘If you’re trying to protect your dignity, it’s long gone.’ So much pale skin to mark, to own, and she takes his ear and a scruff of hair and pulls and jerks his head like a puppet, backward so he stares into her eyes, forward so she can kiss his cheek. She leans in to bite the side of his neck, sucking and twisting as he lets out frantic gasps then lies utterly stunned – and the tears come, a gorgeous flood of them, her doing. She fumbles her phone into play with unsteady hands and records herself again, before jamming buds into Sherlock’s ears and dragging his body around so he’s on his side and she’s straddling his hip and grinding as the question repeats into him, ‘Nobody cares if you die.’ _Break him._

Sherlock gasps and hunches his chest and cries and manages to scrape out the earbud underneath him, but Mary holds the other in place with one hand. He jerks awkwardly as she braces one hand against the mattress and another on Sherlock’s shoulder, and begins to grind in earnest… Sherlock is stilling underneath her though, muttering, ‘No, no, no…’, his voice vague rather than urgent, his eyes fixed on nothing as the faint drone of her voice rises from the earbuds. 

He must have looked much like this when he was tortured in Serbia. As she has made him now.

Enough. 

Mary shifts to kneel beside him, removes the earbuds, gently, and kisses his cheek. She presses her hand to his groin; there was a bulge earlier but it’s gone. ‘Sherlock, where are the plans?’ she asks in an almost-normal voice. ‘There’s people who’ll care a lot if you die.’ A signal for him to head towards the surface.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, just staring distantly across the dim cell. The odd moment stretches out, and Mary is growing afraid, because agreeing to take him here is not the same as being certain they can get back. _Come on, Sherlock, you wanted this. We did._

‘The plans are behind the bookcase,’ says Sherlock, distinctly. ‘Please don’t kill me. I – Mary, green. Green, please. I want to go on.’


	2. Chapter 2

Mary stares into Sherlock’s pain-drunk, tear-red face, and reads the effort it’s taken him to speak. 

‘Green…?’ she tests.

‘Dragan said you’d set me free now,’ he begs. ‘Don’t hurt me any more. Don’t kill me.’

His expression is half-in and half-out of scene, blending fear and trust with an unmistakable plea – for deeper mindfuck. Playing with death threats. Going deep enough they might forget themselves. It’s a terrible idea, and it’s electric.

‘All right,’ she says. If he trusts her that much, she can’t let him down.

Sherlock starts coughing. Mary holds his head up, gentle and patient for a few moments, then drops him to the mattress and makes a pretend phone call. ‘Yeah, he cracked. Couldn’t take much in the end. So, check behind the bookcase. OK…. OK, Jana? You’ve got it? Right.’ Mary pretends to end the call, then looks into Sherlock’s visible eye, and says, ‘What kind of idiot are you? Now that’s sorted out, I can kill you...’ As Rosamund would.

‘… slowly.’ As would Alex.

The man lying in front of her squirms. ‘No,’ he protests, his voice tight with fear. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ replies Rosamund. _Go on._ ‘Stand up.’

Instead, the man struggles in his bonds. His face seems to flicker and change in front of her: dark skin, pale skin, blue eyes green brown blonde crew cut dark curls; the many men and some women she has dispatched over the years. This skinny bastard she unchains, and hauls onto his back on the floor. She kicks him and drags her boot down his chest, leaving dirt and scuffs mingling with the blood, then hoists him up into strap chair. His numbed limbs twitch clumsily as she cuts the zip ties and buckles him down.

‘People care if I die…?’ the man says. Half a question.

‘Really?’ says Rosamund drily, and taps a patch of track marks inside his elbow. 

‘I… friends.’ The man shakes his head then gathers himself to strain desperately, silently at the wrist, thigh and ankle bonds. He doesn’t seem angry like they sometimes do, just desperate. Empty, in a way. There are scars on his back, left by incompetents. He starts weeping. The familiar childlike softness that comes over some men when facing death. Tears, pleas and prayers that end quickly in sprays of blood. ‘I…’

Rosamund raises her hands and blocks his mouth and nose for a few seconds. His lips are moist and soft, and he thrashes, or tries to, making the chair creak. ‘I can do that quite a few times,’ she says, letting go. ‘On, off, on, off…’ She opens and closes her hand near his eyes.

‘No. I’ll do anything…’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ says Rosamund, and covers his face again, for half a minute this time. When she lets go the man gasps, desperately, shuddering. She is high on trust and cruelty, and takes his chin between her hands and stares into his bloodshot eyes. ‘Any last words, while you have the breath for them?’ She’ll hold him down until he passes out if he wants it. The way to wherever they’re going is through.

The man grips the armrests of the chair weakly, tipping back his head, half-taking a deep breath and staring into her eyes. Then he speaks in a flat, desolate voice that seems to come from far away: ‘I – I _am_ a piece of shit. And nobody cares if I die. They’ll be glad to be rid of me. Please kill me, if you’re going to. I’m ready.’

Silence. He’s offering his mouth to Rosamund’s hand. She reaches out, then pauses. She promised to do this. Didn’t she? But Sherlock is wandering in his head, away from her. Rosamund is… Mary is…

 _Wrong._ This is a danger too far. Mary hesitates, staring into Sherlock’s eyes, his breath hot against her palm. ‘Sherlock – you dickhead – red. No. Enough. Of course people care. You’re my best friend. John in his idiot way…’

She stops. Because Sherlock is rising inside himself, rushing to the surface of his gaze.

‘FUCK YOU!’ The scream is half-strangled, but the cords on his neck stand out as he strains towards her, and he yanks so hard on the leather straps binding him that the chair creaks and shifts on the stone floor. Mary is almost scared before her training kicks in. He’s not shouting at her personally… yes he is, but it’s her job to bring him back down. _‘HURTS!’_

Sherlock is trying to pound the arms of the chair with his fists, but Mary takes one of them in her own hands, and holds it, and tries to speak clearly through his shouts. ‘You are not going to die. You’re safe. Sherlock, can you hear me? It’s Mary. It’s Mary.’

He gets it, or maybe half gets it. Enough to shrink down a little and start rambling, to her or to himself: 

‘... I’m a worthless freak… again and again… . I should have been stronger but… I hurt and I accepted I’d die then I don’t and I don’t… I couldn’t move… John grieving... deserve it, and…. I do because… fuck.’

‘You came back, Sherlock. John was all right.’

‘…two weeks! my back… my back.’ He’s crying, but his voice is subsiding. 

‘Sherlock,’ she says. ‘Sherlock. I’m here, Sherlock.’

His eyes focus on her, and he blinks rapidly a few times, like a glitching machine. Mary realises she’s placed her hand on his shoulder, on the scars, but instead of flinching, he’s leaning into it. He stares for long seconds as if she’s the most astonishing phenomenon he’s ever seen, before sagging into sobs against her chest.


	3. Chapter 3

After the careful kisses, and the inspection of cuts, and the hair re-fluffings and toast and off-colour jokes and a phone call to check on Rosie, they sit down together on the duvets.

‘Can you still hear it?’ she wonders. ‘What I said. The insults.’ _Piece of shit. Nobody cares._

Sherlock sighs. ‘You know I’d be telling myself those things if you weren’t.’

Mary looks away. ‘What did I think I was doing, digging about in your self-hatred?’ Call a spade a spade. ‘I wonder if we should even be…’ 

‘Playing at all?’ Sherlock finishes. She stares at him again, afraid he’ll be offended, but instead he says: ‘Mary, you are not him.’ 

‘Who?’ Like she doesn’t know – and like it’s a surprise that this mad bastard’s guessed about Alex, or the shape of Alex. And he is right, of course. ‘No,’ she agrees. ‘You’d be bleeding out on the floor. But we need to go back. To previous limits.’

She expects Sherlock to scoff or pout. Instead he looks defeated, and she winces to see it, but… ‘I know. I can’t fix… that,’ he says. ‘I just wanted…’

‘To try,’ says Mary softly, and kisses his forehead. ‘Well yeah, we collected important data through experimentation, as someone I know would put it. Is it breaking role too much if I just bring you off and we snuggle?’

Sherlock narrows his eyes. ‘We could try that,’ he concedes, then reaches for his zip. He slips his cock out and begins to stroke it as he intones: ‘Daily affirmations: I am a wonderful person. I esteem myself. I am bursting with of self-love. Mary thinks this is extremely erotic. Mary says…’

‘Oh my god,’ Mary interrupts, laughing at the slightly horrifying sight. ‘I give in! A bit. Is it traumatic verbal abuse if Mary says you’re a manipulative pervert who’s going to get a good bit of torturing on his way to mind-blowing orgasms for both of us?’

She gently takes his nipple, waiting for a response before she digs in nails. Sherlock smirks at her until she declares, ‘You absolute brat,’ and climbs roughly on top of him anyway. It feels _right_ , up here. If not everything can be fixed, still this much is good.

‘It works every time,’ Sherlock says. ‘Green.’


End file.
